Are the Things Money Can’t Buy Becoming Scarce?

Across the globe—regardless of geography, race, religion, region, language, culture, or ideology—there is a steadily deepening, increasingly painful phenomenon. At the heart of nearly every problem the world faces today lies this very issue. Beneath the surface of so many complaints, crises, and concerns, we find the same root cause. It is this cause that underlies the degradation of nature, the loss of human meaning, the collapse of social morality, and the devaluation of values. It is also the hidden force behind unchecked urbanization, hideous architecture, crumbling roads, incompetence, nepotism, and injustice.

Even the disconnection between generations, the struggle to adapt to new technologies, the growing pains of democratization, and young people’s waning expectations from life—all of these are mere reflections of a single, deeper reality. Yet we remain fixated on surface-level symptoms, failing to perceive the foundational illness beneath. We cannot seem to recognize the single image that lies beneath the endless collage of surface events.

From where I stand—speaking not just for our country, but for a world steeped in profound crisis and hollow meaning—I see one cause, and one cause alone. Every other factor is merely a symptom of this core truth.

Here is that truth:

The things money can’t buy are disappearing day by day.

Stated inversely:

The things money can buy are multiplying with every passing day.

And this, I believe, is a calamity far greater than any earthquake, fire, or epidemic. No natural disaster is as devastating, no plague as deadly, as this erosion of the priceless.

We are so preoccupied with swatting at the flies above the swamp that we’ve lost the will—or perhaps the capacity—to confront the swamp itself. And the more we chase the flies away, the more they return. Why? Because the swamp remains untouched. The name of that swamp—the pit we’ve fallen into, and which we continue to sink into (with only the speed of descent varying from place to place)—is the vanishing of the things that cannot be bought with money.

Let me be clear: I am not attributing excessive significance to classical Marxist theses or the eternal infrastructure/superstructure debates. I am not succumbing to melodramatic fatalism, nor am I hiding behind the tired slogans of an anti-materialist worldview. I’m not shouting “Down with money!”—because I know, as we all do, that both money and the economy are real and inescapable parts of human life. They always have been.

However, what we are witnessing now—perhaps since the birth of industrial capitalism, or perhaps since the historical rupture Karl Polanyi called The Great Transformation—is something far more dangerous. We are marching steadily toward catastrophe. And as Nietzsche once warned, we are expanding the desert without end.

If there were a single metric by which we could measure the world’s descent into meaninglessness—into social and spiritual extinction—it would be this: the decline in the things money cannot buy.

In my view, there is no clearer, no more vital parameter than this. If you wish to gauge the level of justice and morality in any given country, there is only one question you need ask:

– What is the proportion of things in that country that money cannot buy?

– What is the proportion of things that money can buy?

– Are the things money cannot buy growing—or disappearing?

With this single scale, one can define the developed, developing, or underdeveloped regions of the world. In fact, it ought to be the only real criterion. Perhaps this is what underlies all modernization narratives across the globe. Viewed through this lens, one clearly sees a correlation: as modernization increases, the things money can’t buy tend to diminish. All other indicators pale in significance by comparison.

As the things money cannot buy have decreased, life as a whole has begun to be translated exclusively into the language of economics. Whatever cannot be rendered into economic value is now seen as meaningless, worthless, insignificant, or unnecessary. Economic translatability has become the one and only standard of reality. Even the most sacred values—social morality, individual effort, piety, scientific inquiry, artistic activity—are seen as meaningful and valuable only to the extent that they can be translated into money. (Cahit Koytak’s poem “Shopping Fest or Shopping Paradise” was written precisely to critique this condition.)

Pierre Bourdieu didn’t arbitrarily add cultural, social, and symbolic capital to his theory alongside economic capital. In fact, in Bourdieu’s framework, there is only one true capital: economic capital. The rest are meaningful only insofar as they can be converted into it. By today’s standards, every situation, phenomenon, event, formation, and behavior derives its value solely from its capacity to be translated into economics.

Education, too, is sought after based on how well it translates into economic value. Programs are favored or rejected based on the income they promise. If this is hard to grasp (though I suspect you understand it perfectly well), here’s a timely example:

Millions of students in Türkiye recently took the national university entrance exam. Their scores have been released. Across the country, young people are now scrambling to make their university selections. Soon, they will submit their choices, and the placement results will be announced.

And when they are, what happens every year without exception will happen once again: Faculties and departments will be ranked based on how much money their graduates are expected to earn. The department that yields the highest post-graduation income will have the highest entrance scores. Those that offer little to no financial return will sit at the bottom of the rankings.

Ostensibly, this is an exam to assess academic aptitude—questions are written by experts, and designed to measure academic preparedness. But in reality, the purpose is profit.

Türkiye has long discussed the so-called “education problem.” But in truth, this problem is a façade—even the term itself is misleading. There is no true issue with “education” per se. The real problem is the failure to generate economic return from education. People make an investment in education, and as long as they get a return, there’s no complaint. The outcry comes from those whose investment does not pay off.

From an economic perspective, this protest is entirely justified. It’s the familiar grievance of “I didn’t get back what I put in.” But this is not an education problem—it’s an economic one. People aren’t upset about the quality of teaching, or the academic credentials of university professors. The problem lies solely in the lack of financial return on their investment.

Thus, this cannot honestly be called an education problem. It is, plain and simple, an economic one.

Students are no longer choosing fields based on personality, temperament, interest, or passion. They choose based on one question alone: How much money will this bring me? And they make their decisions accordingly.

(Social scientists can observe this in existing academic research—or verify it easily through new studies.)

On both macro and micro levels, the old saying rings true: “He who pays the piper calls the tune.” On a global scale, it is no longer impressive—or even interesting—to name the world’s wealthiest five or seven families. Nor is it particularly insightful to note that in Türkiye, the true decision-makers are the country’s wealthiest corporations and elite individuals. These are obvious facts now. Everyone knows them.

What I want to explore instead are the more intimate, micro-level dynamics—those insidious shifts that have crept quietly into our personal relationships. Because I believe that changes on the micro level are not only more painful, but also more invisible—and therefore more dangerous.

Money now determines not only the form but also the substance of our personal relationships. It’s just that, for now, we have difficulty admitting it fully.

Take marriage, for instance. Whether a woman seeking to marry is employed has become a far more important factor than it was thirty or forty years ago. And beyond that, the hollow field of politics—responsible for everything, yet accountable for nothing—has even infiltrated the outlook of mothers-in-law (to borrow a phrase from Sühely Öğüt’s The Ontology of the Mother-in-Law). In their eyes, a bride who earns money is more desirable than one who does not. Ironically, the vast majority of these same mothers-in-law have never worked a paid job in their own lives.

The value and substance of women’s labor is also determined by its economic translatability. If a woman’s work can be translated into financial gain, it is respected. If not, it is dismissed. If this weren’t the case, a woman whose labor lacks economic yield wouldn’t be reduced to the dismissive label “housewife,” while one who earns a wage would not be elevated with the term “working woman.”

Even the most selfless, sincere family relationships have been infiltrated by economic logic. A father might now establish a hierarchy among his children based on their financial success—offering more affection and respect to the child in a better economic position, while withholding the same from the less prosperous one.

(Social scientists can find these realities not only in existing academic studies, but can also verify them through rigorous new research.)

Health, too, has essentially become a matter of money.

One of the clearest indicators of the erosion of things money can’t buy is seen in the healthcare system. Even problems such as violence against healthcare workers are ultimately rooted in financial issues. If that weren’t the case, would the majority of such incidents occur in public hospitals rather than private ones?

Today, people fear poverty more than illness. They know that illness may have a cure, but poverty has none. Poverty has become more frightening than cancer itself. If you have enough money, you might find a cure for cancer. But if you’re poor, even the most minor illness could take your life.

In fact, in the global healthcare industry, most research and innovation focuses on the health of upper-income populations. There is very limited attention given to the diseases that affect the majority of the world’s people. This is because the healthcare sector largely operates based on a single guiding question: which illnesses are economically viable to invest in? Patients and diseases that can’t be translated into economic value are overlooked.

(Social scientist colleagues can observe this in existing academic literature or confirm it through further empirical research.)

The growing power of money has profoundly shaped our religious lives and our understanding of piety. Many people today interpret their financial success, business achievements, and growing wealth as signs of being beloved and favored by God. In contrast, those whose lives never seem to go as planned—who can’t earn enough, or fail to become wealthy—often see this as a sign that God does not love them, or that their prayers and worship are being rejected.

In public perception, successful people—defined almost exclusively as those who earn a lot—are often viewed as God’s favored. Meanwhile, those who are unsuccessful are seen as cursed, or even punished by God.

(Social scientists could easily verify this pattern through both academic and scientific studies.)

It seems money has gained enough power to define even the nature and content of our relationship with God. In other words, the catastrophic has already taken place.

Even in matters of religious practice, people now tend to shape their form of religiosity and their interpretation of religion according to how translatable it is into economic value. Many religious individuals today choose their community or religious group based on how much material benefit it can bring. They can easily disregard communities that do not offer financial returns, regardless of their sincerity, principles, or moral alignment.

Earlier, I mentioned that Pierre Bourdieu added cultural, social, and symbolic capital to the idea of economic capital. But in truth, in Bourdieu’s framework, there is only one dominant form of capital: economic capital. The other forms only carry meaning to the extent that they can be converted into economic value.

Of course, bearing in mind—Kantianly speaking—that no universal moral principle can be derived from particular instances, I would still like to share some of my personal observations. In many experiences I’ve had, I have directly witnessed people using their social, cultural, and symbolic capital as instruments for converting them into economic capital.

For example, when we’re looking for a rental house, we often find ourselves dealing with one of the world’s strangest sectors: the real estate business. As those familiar with it would know, the real estate sector is essentially the conversion of social capital into economic capital. In the cases I’ve observed, real estate agents have used every kind of capital—except economic capital itself—as a tool for turning it into money.

A real estate agent may, for instance, be the deputy provincial chair of a political party or hold a key role within the party organization. At the same time, he may be involved in the administration of a religious foundation or association, and may also be on the board of a regional or hometown society. Each of these structures becomes his form of capital. But all of them serve just one purpose: converting into economic capital.

Such a person plays the part required in every environment—whether it’s weeping at a funeral or dancing at a wedding—with the aim of translating that role into economic gain. What’s even more disturbing is that, deep down, everyone in society is quietly preparing themselves to become a “real estate agent character”—or even desiring to become one. Today, the motive behind people’s wish to connect with others, build networks, establish circles or relationships, is increasingly guided by this real estate agent mentality.

(Of course, the “real estate agent character” referred to here does not apply to all real estate professionals—it applies only to some.)

This entire process involves creating different types of capital in various areas, and then gathering them all under a single roof: economic capital. All other forms are reduced to mere tools in its service. Today, the character and destiny of most people are shaped—indeed infected—by this real estate mentality.

Because of this, even helping someone or doing good may come to be seen as actions motivated by economic interests. In a world so thoroughly dominated by the economy, acts of “selfless kindness” risk being equated with a kind of foolishness or naïveté. Yet as Cemil Meriç rightly said, “If the one who does good expects a reward, he is a usurer.”

To live in such a world—where the economy surrounds and controls every aspect of life—is a catastrophe greater than any disaster or calamity. No earthquake is more devastating, no fire more painful, no illness more deadly than this.

Of course, there are some thinkers who object to the picture I’ve described. In the field of economic sociology, the issue is generally debated along the following axis: Should everything be left to the mercy of the market, or should it be constrained by social values?

In this context, I would like to mention a book that had a significant impact on me: What Money Can’t Buy by Michael J. Sandel (Ekşi Kitaplar, 2016). This work is a contemporary philosophical intervention that I value highly, as it explores the moral and societal consequences of the market permeating all aspects of life. When Sandel asks, “How did we go from being a market economy to becoming a market society?”, he points not only to an economic transformation but also to an ethical collapse.

One of Sandel’s central theses is that while a market economy may serve as an efficient mechanism, a market society undermines the moral fabric of life. A market economy—as a system for organizing the production and distribution of goods and services—has undeniable practical value. However, a market society goes further: it seeks to define all values and human relationships according to market logic. This distinction directly challenges the value-neutral stance of modern liberalism.

According to Sandel, the rise of a market society gives birth to two core moral dilemmas:

First, when access to opportunities is determined by money, income inequality inevitably leads to inequality in life chances.

Second, wherever money enters, it corrupts or erodes the intrinsic meaning and moral value of that domain.

Sandel illustrates this shift with compelling examples of areas once shielded from market logic that are now commodified. These include: paying children to read books at school, allowing people to buy access to fast lanes, legalizing the sale of organs, blood, or even citizenship—and permitting prisoners to pay for better prison conditions. The common thread among these cases is the reduction of public or ethical goods into marketable commodities. Sandel argues that this trend not only distorts civic virtues but also endangers the human condition itself. He stresses that money influences not just the distribution of goods, but the creation of meaning.

While Sandel centers his analysis on contemporary American society, one could argue that his critique is not exclusive to the United States. The unfortunate truth is that the damage has already spread globally. Across the world, societies are becoming increasingly Americanized—albeit at different speeds and scales. Even within Türkiye, the distinction between the eastern and western regions in terms of Americanization is merely a matter of degree. The western regions are adopting these patterns more rapidly, while the eastern parts lag behind. (This distinction becomes particularly clear when listening to the testimonies of those who have migrated from the east to the west.)

Another important point about Sandel’s book is that his critique is not a radical repudiation of the system based on monetized values. Rather, it serves as a moral intervention—a kind of philosophical band-aid—meant to prevent the liberal-capitalist order from imploding. For even within this order, the unchecked dominance of money poses a threat. If left unexamined, society may become so corrupted by market values that it loses its capacity to function as a society at all. Even capitalism, in its liberal form, depends on a minimum level of trust, cohesion, and moral restraint to sustain itself.

In conclusion, the gravest danger we face today is the wholesale transformation of society into a market society—a shift that silently, gradually dissolves all ethnic, cultural, geographical, and religious boundaries between people, not in the name of unity, but in the name of commodification. As the forces of the market encroach upon the very elements that once bound communities together—reducing them to things with a price tag, negotiable and for sale—we face a crisis that calls for urgent moral attention.

Judging a country’s development by per capita income, export figures, or digital infrastructure alone is deeply misleading. The truest measure lies in how many things within that country remain beyond the reach of money. Societies that uphold justice, compassion, loyalty, knowledge, and faith—not for their economic utility, but for their inherent worth—are the only ones capable of building a truly humane future.

In my forthcoming writings, I intend to explore this matter in greater depth and offer thoughts on possible solutions.